Unspeakable
by Second Hand Regret
Summary: An incident in the classroom leaves Charlie literally speechless and traumatized. Chapter 8 up. Sorry for the lateness.
1. Fog And Painful Sunsets

**Chapter One: Fog And Painful Sunsets**

It began on a day like any other. A common Mathematician/Professor taught a group of common University students in common lecture theatre with almost no interruptions.

The first shot was heard from the very back of the theatre, a warning shot that cast the echo off the walls, mimicking the bullet's rebound. Charlie Eppes ceased his frantic writing and whirled to face his class, dark eyes wide and darting in silent fear around the room. He'd heard the sound many times before, but here, in his own classroom. The sound was disturbingly out of place.

The shot came again, and a pained shriek pierced the air, signifying that the bullet had found its first target: a young woman with white-blonde hair and gold rimmed glasses; dead before she even hit the floor. It took the class ―and Charlie― a few seconds to take in what had happened, but when realization hit and more shots cut through the eerie silence, chaos ensued as they tried to take cover under their desks, some getting caught in the crossfire, but most succeeding. Charlie followed the survivors a split second later, clapping his hands over his ears against the sounds of gunshot and screams, and squeezing his eyes shut, not wanting to take in the horror unfolding before him.

He was frozen into pure terror.

Helpless. Utterly helpless.

It was only when he felt cold metal against his forehead that he managed to open his eyes and look up toward the source, though he was trembling terribly. A young man had the gun pressed against Charlie's brow.

_One of his students._

"Michael," Charlie breathed, forming the word carefully so as not to evoke any negative reaction. The youth simply smirked at him mockingly and nodded his head slightly in response.

"Professor,"

He turned away and made for the door.

Charlie peered up cautiously, and abandoned the safety of his desk when he caught a brief glimpse of one of his students, who he'd thought to be dead, move slightly. At the very last moment, Michael whipped around and fired twice at the off-guard mathematician, now in full view of the troubled youth.

The first bullet missed its target, but the second succeeded in making contact with Charlie's throat.

Whatever Don had previously told him about there being numbness before pain was instantly contradicted as the full extent of pure agony struck him without mercy.

He fell, his hands clutching at his neck as if he was choking, trying to breathe but not getting any air, anguished cries meeting his ears.

Then Michael was standing over him, looking down at him with empty, adamant green eyes, intoning a song Charlie had heard several times before.

"We don't need no education…"

He pause, raised the gun to his own temple; thumbed back the hammer.

"We don't need no―"

A gunshot interrupted.

Charlie tried to cry out but only a strangled gasp escaped him, and he was aware of the warm wetness of blood on his hands as it leaked through his fingers.

_Blood_.

He shuddered for the thought. The very thought, the _recognition _that he was bleeding, that he had just seen one of his students end his own life before his eyes.

That he might be dying.

It was possible. Or was it, 'probable'?

Charlie couldn't discern one from the other. Normally he could, but his thoughts were out of focus, fuzzy, like a radio without the antennae.

His sight was also going hazy. Everything…so far away…though he could make out a few of the remaining students talking…to him? Once again he wasn't sure.

Just before he passed out, before his hands slipped away from the wound in his neck and his energy left him and he succumbed to darkness, he heard a familiar voice. Whether it was in his mind or not, he couldn't tell, but he was certain of one thing.

Laying there in his classroom, Charlie Eppes heard his mother's voice.

---

_The first thing he heard when the fog cleared and the sun came up was someone__―__ a woman__―__ singing softly. A song that he recognised but didn't much care for._

"_There's not a cloud in the sky_

_It's as blue as your blue goodbye_

_And I thought that it would rain_

_The day you went away_

_Hey_

_Does it ever make you wonder what's on my mind?_

_I was only ever running back to your side__―__"_

_The song stopped abruptly._

"_Charlie? Honey, why are you crying?_

_He looked up, slightly startled, toward the memorable voice and saw his mother standing in front of him. _

"_Funeral song__―__" _

_The only two words Charlie managed before he found himself in Margaret's embrace. He hadn't known he was crying before, but he didn't care, now that he knew._

"_Mom I'm so sorry," Charlie whimpered. "I never meant…I__―__"_

"_Charlie ssh. You have nothing to be sorry for,"_

"_I was…I was n-never…I was never there for you Mom. During…during…" Charlie trailed off, threatened by more tears. Margaret smiled at him warmly._

"_Charlie, you _were_. You were because I thought if you when I couldn't see you. I understand you, Charlie, and why you locked yourself away. It's all part of grief, and it's normal. But you've felt so guilty about it all this time, and if you really need to hear it then I'll say it: I forgive you Charlie,"_

_He smiled against his mother's shoulder. "That's a relief,"_

_Margaret returned the gesture, then gently eased him away from her, but still held his shoulders._

"_Charlie, I need you to do something for me,"_

"_Anything,"_

"_Tell your father and brother I said hi," _

_The words were barely out of her mouth when Charlie felt the familiar, choking agony seize his throat. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, and watched, despaired, as his mother faded from sight._

_Then the fog returned and the sun set on him once more._


	2. First Thoughts

**A/N: **I just want to say a big thank you to those people who reviewed for the last chapter. This is my first Numb3rs story and I was worrying that no- one would like it.

You guys rock and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **Oh, yeah, forgot. Don't own (thankfully) not true so don't sue. I'm broke and you'd be wasting your time.

**Chapter Two: First Thoughts**

_The numbers made me do it._

His first non-fuzzy thought came as a surprise even to him. It was crazy, completely insane, but he was grateful, at least, for the fact that it was clear.

Then a voice, vaguely familiar, calling him…

"Charlie?"

_Dad._

There was an irresistible urge to open his eyes, but they were too heavy. He wasn't quite ready yet, his mind told him.

Charlie's sense of hearing had returned like a faithful dog retrieving its ball, but it seemed that Sight, Smell, Touch and Taste were lagging far behind.

And being the ever-logical thinker, he assumed two reasons for this: He was either drugged up, or simply hadn't emerged from the fog yet.

He felt himself twitch slightly, and the subtle realization of a hand gripping his own told him that Touch had caught up.

There was another sudden feeling, one he'd missed for so long, though he couldn't remember exactly _how _long it had been.

_He could breathe._

The air he had been lusting for in the moments he'd forgotten never tasted so good. And there was a feeling in his stomach, rising up inside of him now that he was aware of his lungs filling. It was the same sort of excited relief an author may experience when writing a story and stuck on what to write next, only to finally get pummelled with a big idea after sleepless days of pondering over the damn thing.

But Charlie wasn't an author. He was a mathematician. A mathematician who, though slowly being brought back to reality, had to get through the fog in order to see familiar faces.

He was aware of their presence; the hand holding his, the occasional calling of his name. These were the things now spurring him through.

This was his inspiration for the next chapter of his life.

They pulled him from the fog: the people Charlie knew and loved. The heaviness was lifted from his eyes, and suddenly Sight, Smell and Taste were back with a vengeance. He had to blink a few times to get used to the white glare of the lights, but the lights were of minor importance, as was the realization that this place was one Charlie was not too familiar with.

What _was _familiar to him, what _mattered_ was the hand now squeezing his, and the sound of someone sniffling. He looked toward the sources.

Straight into the warm brown eyes of his big brother.

"Hey, you," Don murmured, the smile on his face about a mile wide.

Charlie opened his mouth to speak, but, lost for the choice of words he searched for, closed it instead and managed one of his famous side-of-the-mouth smiles, which only grew in length when his father's face appeared over Don's shoulder.

It was clear now that Alan had been the one Charlie had heard sniffling. His eyes were red and a few stray tears were just finishing their journey down his cheeks.

And from the smile playing wearily across his lips, there was a chance that those tears were, or had been, tears of joy.

"Welcome back," Alan said softly, as if speaking too loud would disturb the sleep of someone else who might be in the room.

Charlie didn't know it yet, but bad news was yet to come.

---

He slept for most of the day, not because he wanted to but because he needed to, according to his nurse― Esmé, her nametag read— who wouldn't even let him sit up.

"You need to rest, love,"

That was what she told him each time. There was a reason for this. Whenever Charlie fell asleep a repetitive nightmare would make itself at home in his mind, and when he woke up it was because he didn't want to return to it.

When sleep took over sometime later, for what he counted as the fourth time, the nightmare _did_ return, as vivid and terrifying as ever.

He found himself standing in his classroom, watching a solid image of himself writing on the blackboard as he had done before the shooting. The incident repeated itself in his nightmare, except everything was in slow motion, which was what tormented him the most. When Michael raised the gun to his own head Charlie tried to turn away, but the image followed him in whatever direction he tried to turn. Even when he closed his eyes it was there. The very second Michael pulled the trigger, tears sprung to Charlie's eyes. Tears for the student _he _had known and taught for as long as he could remember. Tears for those he had lost. Tears for that whole incident.

When Charlie returned to reality, he often found that those tears were real.


	3. Reality

**A/N:** Thanks once again to the people who contributed reviews. You guys rock. Oh, yeah, and the idea for this chapter is as requested by criminally charmed.

**Disclaimer:** Same as last chapter's: Don't own, not true, don't sue.

**Chapter Three: Reality (A flashback chapter)**

For Don and Alan, facing the truth of the university shooting had been more frightening than any nightmare they'd ever known.

Anxiety had first reared its ugly head three weeks before Charlie had opened his eyes and smiled up at his brother and father when he had not come through the door at his usual time. At first, the event had caused only mild worry, as Charlie had been late before, but it was when Don couldn't get through to his brother via mobile phone that he really began to worry, and so he made a mistake he would come to regret.

He drove down to CalSci.

The very minute Don pulled into the university's carpark, he was convinced that something was wrong.

There was a large group gathered outside the building, and when he got out of his car and advanced towards them, he could hear miscellaneous parts of whispered conversation.

"They won't say what happened…"

"What the hell is going on?"

"Well _I_ heard it was a student…"

"Is he alive?"

"Took the bullet, that's what I heard…"

"He killed himself…"

"She told me it was the Professor who died…"

"But seriously, Mr Eppes couldn't possibly still be alive if that was the case…"

This last murmured sentence struck him as clearly as if someone had screamed it in his ear. With a wave of unease rising inside him, Don approached the nearest individual, a pretty, young woman with fiery red hair and jade-green eyes.

"Excuse me," He said softly. "Can I ask what happened here?"

The woman shrugged and stared off into the distance. "Dunno. Apparently someone heard a gunshot,"

"Several," The woman's dark-haired neighbour spoke up. "I heard it was _several_ gunshots. From the lecture theatre on the second floor,"

That was all Don needed to hear. He knew for a fact that it was Charlie's theatre the two women spoke of, and in an instant he'd bolted up the steps to the building's entrance and was making a beeline toward the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. He let nothing in his path stop him, not even the burly man who tried to keep him away with the famous first words "I'm sorry sir, but you shouldn't be here", to which Don practically threw his ID at him with a muttered "FBI, give me a break" and kept running. He skidded to a halt outside what he knew to be his brother's theatre and his breath caught in his throat in mid-pant as he saw the familiar form lying deathly still in the middle of the floor, alone except for the two paramedics working hurriedly, in the hopes that another life might be spared. They were saying something, but Don had blocked out all sound and thought, excepting that of Charlie. Somehow he was lead to believe that the man with his neck covered in blood was not his brother. The Charlie Don knew and loved was not as pale. Not as silent. Not as motionless. The man lying in Charlie's classroom was a stranger to him, though his mind scolded him, arguing that the 'stranger' _was _his brother.

His train of thought was rudely interrupted when one of the paramedics, a woman, saw him standing there, and shut the door in his face, again informing him, "You shouldn't be here".

Trembling, Don turned away, a multitude of feelings engulfing him.

Confusion. (_Who had done this?)_

Vengeance. _(I'll find the bastard…they'll pay…)_

Anger. (_How dare they hurt him…)_

Curiosity. _(I want to know the whole story)_

Worry. _(Will he live through this?)_

And finally an overwhelming sense of sorrow. For, as far as Don was concerned, no-one he had heard of had survived a shot-wound to the neck. With a last, despairing glance at the lecture theatre, he bolted from the building, not stopping until he reached his car. It was only when he inserted the key into the ignition that the tears broke free.

Don had witnessed many disturbing scenes, easily forgotten with a good night's rest and the company of loved ones, but seeing Charlie, his baby brother, so still and pale on the floor of his classroom was a sight that was extremely hard to overcome.

Telling his father the news was much more difficult.


	4. Facing The Truth

**A/N: **Hello all! I decided to make this chapter longer just for the sake of it. Oh, yeah, and I attempted a scene in Alan's POV, but it may be a little out of character so please be nice. I'm doing the best I can. Anyway, enough rambling, on with the story…

**Disclaimer: **Eh, you know it by now. But I do own Brewer and Andrea.

**Chapter Four: Facing The Truth**

Andrea Brant couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for turning away the stranger standing in the doorway. She'd always had a firm, no-nonsense nature, like most professional medics, thus guilt was somewhat foreign to her, but not unknown. It was in this nature that she regularly informed onlookers that what was happening didn't concern them, but the brief glimpse of indescribable sorrow she'd caught in the young man's eyes was enough to tell her that it _did_ concern him.

Andrea was convinced, by that split-second expression that he was related to the casualty. She'd looked for him as she and her work partner Brewer (First name Thomas) wheeled the casualty out to the ambulance, but he wasn't there. Sitting in the ambulance now, grey-blue eyes locked on the stretcher's burden, she pondered over all possible connections between him and the stranger.

"It's too quiet in here," Brewer spoke up from the driver's seat. "I need music,"

Andre sighed. Brewer was the sort of man who had boundless energy, a talent for annoying others, and an intense hatred of awkward silences. He was only young― no more than twenty― with a mischievous fire in his large green eyes, messy blonde hair, and a small nose and mouth.

Andrea was forty-five, and no longer believed in childish fun. She stayed in when everyone else was out partying

But she and Brewer were work partners, and just had to put up with each other's differences.

"Fine, Brewer," She replied. "But _quietly._ I need to be able to hear myself think. And none of that Slipknot rubbish. That nearly drove me in_sane _last time,"

"Yes _ma'am_," Brewer muttered, and switched on the radio. Immediately she smiled as she recognised the song, and he groaned.

"I _hate_ this song,"

"Too bad," Andrea told him firmly. "I like it,"

_Most men don't appreciate Wendy Matthews' poetic songs, _Andrea thought. _Especially this one. _

As it turned out, The Day You Went Away was one of her all-time favourite songs, and not just because it reminded her of her husband Peter, who had walked out on her two years ago.

That was in the past, and what mattered now was the present. There was nothing more to it.

Andrea sighed again, studying the casualty's features and trying to find some similarity between him and the stranger.

"Somethin' on your mind Andy?" Brewer asked.

"Yes, but it doesn't concern you,"

"Aww, c'mon, don't be such a hard-ass,"

"You didn't happen to see that man standing at the door before did you?"

"Yeah, I did. What about him?"

"I think he might be somehow related to the casualty,"  
"Oh. That's it?"

"Brewer, he looked utterly dis_traught._ If they weren't related, don't you think he would've stayed outside with the others?"  
"Maybe he was just surprised,"

"What I saw was much more than just surprise. It was a mixture of despair, concern, shock and a sort of…unconditional love in the one expression,"

Brewer snickered. "Ya think they might be soulmates or somethin'?"

"No, not _that _kind of love. More like…"

Andrea paused, thinking hard. Looking at the casualty and comparing him to the stranger, she realised that they had similar features.

_Maybe they were family?_

Father and son? No. Both too young. Cousins? Uncle and nephew? No. What Andrea had seen in the man's eyes was a lot stronger. Like…

"Brotherly love,"

"You say somethin' Andy?"

"Brewer, I think they're brothers,"

"I still don't see were you're goin' with this,"

Andrea let out a frustrated groan. "Don't you get it? The man at the door saw us trying to restart his _brother's heart! _Even now the poor soul must think he's dead. He could've come with us; it would have given him a _bit _of relief,"

"Well, why don't you find the guy? If they _are_ brothers, he should have his ID on him, and his address,"

"Oh, Brewer, I don't know. It doesn't feel right to take his things,"

"You're not _stealin'_ it, for cryin' out loud,"

"_Fine_,"

Andrea reached gently into his jeans pocket, probing until her fingers found and retrieved the object of her search: his wallet. She opened it and scanned the identification card inside― his driver's licence, which she found to be the most useful.

_Eppes, Charles Edward_

_874 Hunter Street  
Los Angeles, CA 90021_

_September 5, 1975_

"Charles Eppes," she murmured to herself, looking back at the man she spoke of. He didn't look like a 'Charles', at least, not from the picture on his driver's licence. Like Brewer, his large brown eyes had that mischievous spark. Clearly the name 'Charles' suited a much more sophisticated-looking man, or royalty; not this trouble-maker. He was more of a 'Charlie', a casual, light-hearted name for a man of the same character.

She made a mental note of his address and replaced the wallet just as carefully as she'd retrieved it. As the ambulance pulled into the hospital carpark, she had time to take his hand in hers and whisper one thing into his ear before she and Brewer rushed him to the ER.

"Hold on, Charlie. Your brother needs you,"

If he were conscious at the time, Charlie would've recognised the tone as being almost maternal.

---

Alan Eppes was used to having one or both of his sons come home irritable, stressed, or utterly exhausted, but when Don walked in half an hour after he'd pulled up in the CalSci carpark, with tears streaming down his cheeks, it took him completely by surprise. Astonishment turned to shock a second later, as Alan remembered the only reasons Don had ever been known to cry. Either someone very close to him was dying (And Alan had a sinking feeling he knew who that 'someone' could be), already dead, or Don had just been given the biggest fright of his life. It was for these reasons, and these reasons only, that Alan was reluctant to ask his eldest what was wrong, but when Don sat down heavily on the couch in the loungeroom, brushing at his tears with one hand while his other supported his forehead, the words broke free like a confession from a tortured convict.

"Donnie…what happened?"

The only response he got from his son was a shake of the head and more tears. This time paternal instinct kicked in and Alan abandoned the book he had been reading and joined Don on the couch, a comforting hand making itself at home on his shoulder before he spoke again.

"Tell me, son…what's wrong?"

He didn't want to repeat it, but being a parent, it was almost automatic.

Don raised his head slowly to look at his father, tears still flowing freely. It didn't take an expert to tell Alan that something was terribly wrong, because he already knew. He could see it clearly reflected back at him in his son's eyes: fear, pain, despair, and an overwhelming sense of unease.

"Is it Charlie?"

Don nodded slowly, wiping away his tears again, and the simple gesture struck Alan with the weight of the world, the force of something so strong, he could only begin to describe it.

It was the feeling of pure fear.

"Is he…?"

Alan was reluctant to finish the question, maybe because what he had been meaning to ask Don was something along the lines of "Is he dead?", and since the event he did not dare to bring to mind he had eliminated the word and its relations from his vocabulary, though occasionally it would slip out, but went unnoticed. It was like not swearing in church, but not being able to help the odd curse when a toe was stubbed or a hand accidentally smacked against one of the wooden pews.

Don sighed. "I don't know. I-I think someone shot him,"

Alan felt as if someone had slapped him; it took a moment for the news to sink in.

"No…"

The word came out a shocked whisper, a father's plea to be carried on the wind to his unstable son, a feeble hint of hope to nudge the injured man in the direction of the winding path to recovery.

"Oh, God…Donnie how did this happen?"

Don shrugged, shook his head and the floodgates opened once again.

After an awkward moment of silence, the agent's tone turned from despaired to irritated with two sentences:

"I don't give a damn what she told me. I need to see him,"

Having said that, he stood up hastily, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.

"Coming?"

It was a question that didn't need any thought.

The first thing Alan and Don saw when they got outside was the woman getting out of her car. She looked about in her mid-forties, dark hair pulled into a tight bun, her mouth set in a hard, thin line and her expression grim. Alan was reminded of a private-school disciplinarian, or a crow. The woman looked up and scanned the area, her eyes falling on the two men standing on the front porch. Don swore under his breath as she advanced toward them, a clear sign of recognition.

"Can we help you, miss?" Alan asked.

"Yes, actually," She replied. It was obvious she didn't tolerate any nonsense. "Are you related to a Charles Eppes?"

"We both are," Don spoke up. His tone was cold, bitter, but still anguished. "You're looking at his big brother and father,"

"Sir―"

"_Don_,"

"―I must apologise for what I told you back at the university. If I had known about the connection, I wouldn't have shut the door and said what I did, but you must know, it's become a habit of mine, being a medic, therefore it's natural,"

Even Don could relate to that, and so forgiveness was exchanged between the two.

"Don," The woman continued. "If it's any consolation whatsoever, I'd like to offer to take you and your father to the hospital to visit your brother,"

He sighed, though not out of frustration. "Thank you. It's…uh…yeah…thanks,"

And so Alan met Andrea Brant, one of the paramedics who, for the moment, had restrained Charlie from Death's door.

The ride to the hospital was completely silent. Both Eppes men stared off out the window; both had the same thought on his mind:

(_Let Charlie live through this)_

Both hoped, _prayed_,that Death wouldn't make a second visit tho the family.

It could not end like this.

It just couldn't.

The very second Andrea's car pulled into came to a stop, Don was already out the door and making a beeline toward the hospital entrance, and Alan followed his eldest a split second later. They reached the front desk in record time, startling a young, blonde, blue-eyed nurse seated at a computer.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"My son was brought in today," Alan replied, his voice scarily calm. "We need to see him,"

"His name?"

"Charles Eppes,"

The nurse typed in the name, then frowned slightly.

"I'm sorry, but how's that spelt?  
"E-P-P-E-S,"

"Thanks," She turned back to her computer. "He's in surgery at the moment. I'm afraid you can't see him,"

"We'll wait," Don spoke up, and from his tone there was to be no further discussion on the matter.

So they waited.

The minutes stretched on like hours; the hours like an eternity. Between the two men, the silence spoke louder than words ever could, and there were no expressions to even _begin_ to describe how afraid Alan and Don were for Charlie's life.

At long last a doctor entered the waiting room.

"Anyone for Charles Eppes?"

They were on their feet in a flash.

"How is he?"

The clichéd question spilled from Alan's mouth before he knew what to say.

"He's in a severe condition. Stable, for the time being, but a wound of such critical proportions lowers his chance of survival drastically,"

"There _is_ still hope, isn't there? I mean, he…he isn't―"

Alan sighed, and then restated his choice of words.

"Will Charlie pull through?"

"In all honesty…" The doctor replied solemnly. "He needs a miracle,"


	5. How To Make A Miracle

**A/N:** Sorry that last chapter took so long. I've been busy with school and stuff, plus writer's block. Can you believe, first week back and already I have three assignments? Damn school.

Anyway, just a reminder that this chapter is still a flashback, as some people got confused before. This will be the last flashback before we return to the present, after Charlie has woken.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, yada, yada, yada.

**Chapter Five: How To Make A Miracle**

As it turned out, the miracle Charlie needed had been with them the whole time. It existed within the man trained to veil emotion, yet had been reduced to tears at the news at the news of the shooting.

Don hadn't known it at the time, but he had been the miracle that had saved Charlie's life.

It was the very second the doctor opened the door to Charlie's room, one day and one sleepless night after the shooting at CalSci, that Don was beside his baby brother in the blink of an eye, ignoring the machines working as one to keep the comatose professor alive, as the paramedics had at the university to restart the young man's heart. Every so often an inaudible phase of murmuring could be heard from the agent as he clung to Charlie's hand, as though clinging to life itself. Alan watched the scene from the other side of the hospital bed, touched. There were only a few occasions where Don had revealed affection this strong, but here, now, was affection as well as determination. In fact, it seemed he was so determined on getting his brother through this, that if Charlie was to reunite with his mother, the effect it would have on Don would be eternally torturous.

Something that Alan had always believed, ever since Don and Charlie were born, was that a parent should never have to bury a child. Now the belief re-emerged, after years of existing, but never really being something regularly thought about.

Alan sighed and took Charlie's other hand in his own, hoping that what he believed would still hold strong; that he would not live to see either of his sons lying lifeless in a coffin.

He shuddered. Just _thinking_ about it was hard enough to bear. What if it actually _happened?_

Alan forced the thought away and unconsciously found himself muttering his own affirmation.

"I know you can get through this, Charlie. I know it,"

At some point Don glanced up, just for a moment, and smiled at his father, before turning his attention back to Charlie and whispering close to his ear,

"See Charlie? Dad thinks so too,"

Alan woke with a start, not knowing what had woken him or why or how he'd managed to fall asleep in the first place. A hand was tugging at his sleeve.

"Sir you have to leave,"

It was a voice Alan didn't recognise, but was urgent and firm at the same time. A typical doctor's air.

"No no no no no…please he's my brother I need to stay with him…please he needs me―"

"Leave now, both of you!"

They were both hustled out the door, Don still protesting and Alan confused as to what was happening.

"Donnie, what's going on?"

It seemed that Don didn't hear him. He was at the window leading into Charlie's room, one hand pressed up against it, the other thumping the glass repeatedly, but with no force involved, his forehead resting against the window. Alan approached his eldest in order to comfort him, and a muttered phrase was heard, softly spoken, but undeniably firm.

"Don't you _dare_ die on us Charlie, don't you _dare_,"

Suddenly it was terrifyingly clear: Charlie had flatlined.

Alan felt an overwhelming need to sit down, due to the dizziness that had hit without warning like a tidal wave. He took a seat in the chair nearest to him, hoping his worst fears would not yet be confirmed again.

"Don't you _dare_ die on us you hear me! Don't you _dare_ Charlie!"

Don's voice had risen to almost a shout, the broken man Alan had witnessed one day before gave way to the ever-determined FBI agent, and he continued on.

"_Fight _dammit! You remember what I told you and you fight! You tell Mom to send you back! You come back to us Charlie, because we need you, got it? We need you! It's not your time yet Buddy―"

This sentence was a lot softer, but still held the same determination.

"It's _not_ your time,"

He made as if to say something more, but was interrupted as the door opened, revealing a doctor and her pale, very shocked-looking assistant.

"Is he okay?"  
It was not a question Don asked of them; it was a demand.

"For now, yes," the doctor replied. "Although, I must be frank with you: we almost lost him this time,"

"_This _time?" Don hissed. "You mean it's happened before?!"

"Twice in surgery," From the doctor's tone, it was as though the whole event was something that was of little or no significance whatsoever. When her assistant finally spoke, however, it was the complete opposite, though whatever was said was indistinct. The doctor seemed to hear her though.

"There's no such thing as a miracle in these situations," she insisted firmly. "We do only what we can,"

Having said that, she walked away, disappearing down the hallway. Her assistant stayed in the one spot, as if frozen or unwilling to move. She looked slightly hurt, as well as shocked.

"Yes there is," she muttered, and made to leave as well.

"Wait," Don touched her arm gently. "What happened?"

She turned and looked at him shyly. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you,"

"It doesn't matter. I'm his brother. I need to know,"

"And I'm his father," Alan spoke up. "Please, tell us,"

"Well, uh…his heart wouldn't restart, but we kept trying to, and after a while we thought…y'know, the worst, but the moment we hesitated, when I went to turn the defibrillation up, the guy's heart just started up ―BAM― like that. No warning or anything,"

"Wow," Don replied, not being able to help a smile. "That _is _pretty amazing,"  
"Yeah. Like something in the movies,"

What Don really wanted to say was something along the lines of, "Charlie's _always_ been that stubborn,"

It was six long months later, just before Charlie opened his eyes and smiled up at Don and Alan, when the machine breathing for him was deprived of its job.

During that time, both men had refused to leave his side, and the doctor saw, in their eyes, that they were oblivious to the term 'visiting hours' and so let them sleep in the waiting room.

Now, like some senseless form of déjà vu, they found themselves once again sitting beside Charlie's hospital bed, no sound heard but the robotic breaths of the machine, breaths that could almost be mistaken for conversation. An inhale became a question, an exhale the answer. It was designed in such a way that it would not interfere should the natural process begin again.

And five minutes later, when the machine asked its question, Charlie provided the answer.

The breath was shaky and quiet, like a sad sigh, but enough, it seemed, to avert Alan's attention from the mediocre view of what lay outside the window to the hospital bed's burden.

The machine asked again. Charlie answered.

This time it was stronger, like he was finalizing his existence. Like that one breath told them _Yes, I'm alive, stop asking me!_

"Charlie?"

Alan's voice cracked on the last syllable, and he felt his eyes fill with tears but he did not fight them. For they were tears not of despair but of joy, tears of a father gloriously overwhelmed by this mercy his youngest son had been given.

Across from Alan, Don shifted slightly, whether out of excitement or discomfort from the hard plastic chair was uncertain, but immediately after that came another subtle movement. It was a twitch of the finger, perfectly timed, not from Don or Alan, but from Charlie. Don gripped his brother's hand and began speaking to him, calling him out of the coma he had been in for what had seemed like an eternity.

The machine's imaginary breaths had at last been silenced. Charlie would no longer have to be dependent on it to keep him alive.

Charlie moved again― a slight twitch of the eyelids this time, like he was on the threshold of a dream― and when those eyes opened at last, Alan had to take the first moment to wipe away his tears before speaking.

"Welcome back,"

Don and Alan no longer hoped that he would get through this.

They _knew_.


	6. Demons

**A/N: **Again, I apologise for the lateness of this chapter, due to a drastic but reluctant focus on schoolwork. Writer's block was also partly to blame. Anyway, just a reminder that this chapter is now in present time, a week after Charlie has woken up. I won't bother with the disclaimer any more. I think you lovely people are already convinced that I don't own Numb3rs.

**Chapter Six: Demons **

In the Eppes family, it was well-known that Charlie could not keep quiet for more than ten minutes. In the hospital however, not a sound had been heard from the mathematician since the day of the shooting.

It was extremely hard to believe, but Charlie had taken a pact of silence, a sensible enough, yet anomalous decision, since in the past Don would normally have to yell at his brother to shut him up and get a word in. But a bullet-wound to the neck, though healing, was far from painless. Even a simple yawn was a reluctant effort, an agonising chore, and each time Charlie dreaded to think how bad the pain would be if he dared to speak.

At present, he was fast asleep, the nightmare playing like a bad song on repeat in his mind. He was jerked back into reality, trembling, in tears and feeling as though he had just drank a cupful of acid, as Michael pulled the trigger on himself. He shut his eyes against the pain, hugging his knees to his chest in an attempt to stop shaking, the eerie notes of Pink Floyd's Another Brick In The Wall ringing in his mind along with the nightmare: unwanted storm clouds over the picnic of his thoughts.

Charlie felt like a child again. The same child who had hidden from the monsters under his bed at the age of four. In the past, it was Don who had comforted him with a glass of water, a tissue to dry his tears and an amusing sign stuck to the door saying something along the lines of 'No monsters allowed'. Sometimes Alan would get up in the morning to wake the boys and discover them both curled up in the same bed, still fast asleep. It was paternal instinct that told him that Charlie had probably had a nightmare.

The hospital was different.

Here Charlie woke without comfort, without warmth.

Without his family.

Here there were monsters of a different kind, monsters ―demons― that an amusing sign would not silence. They existed not under the bad but in the pages of his mind, tormenting him one by one at different times.

They were the demons he had to defeat to get in with normal life: Trauma, Pain, Nightmare, Sorrow and Fear. In a way they were all related. Trauma and Nightmare worked as one, Pain had a twin, and Sorrow and Fear were siblings.

"You okay love?"

The voice at the door made him jump, disturbed him from his existing thoughts. Still shaking, Charlie uncurled himself slightly, looking up toward the source. Esmé stood in the doorway, and he was almost blinded by the sudden glare of the torch she was currently aiming directly at his face. He looked away, blinking hard and fast.

"Sorry," she apologised. She approached his bedside, keeping the light directed at the floor and he sat up slowly, moving his legs out of the way so she could sit down on the bed comfortably.

"Are you okay?" Esmé repeated. Gently she took his trembling hand in hers and the sudden look that crossed Charlie's face was that of a frightened puppy: big brown eyes bore directly into hers, despairing, pleading, yet wary. She had seen this expression many times, but rarely in a grown man. It was an expression of one who is truly suffering, not just physically but mentally, emotionally.

"Oh goodness…you're shaking like a leaf love,"

Charlie shrugged and lowered his eyes, as if ashamed to accept it. He slowly eased his hand out of hers and let it drop back beside him, shutting his eyes as he felt an onset of tears behind them. He hated crying. It was something he and Don shared, as well as the tendency to attempt to hide tears when crying was inevitable. Alan kept telling them repeatedly "real men show emotion", but the brothers had already made the whole thing a natural habit. Don especially, because of the FBI training and perhaps peer pressure.

"Are you in pain anywhere?"

This he was not ashamed to accept. He nodded slowly and gestured toward his throat, which still felt as if it were being stabbed repeatedly with a red-hot knife.

"I'll see what I can do,"

A tiny smile of gratitude was managed as Esmé left the room.

When she returned a short moment later, hypodermic needle in hand, Charlie froze at the sight of it.

He hated needles. Just as he hated the sight of blood, among other things.

_Like watching my students die_, he thought darkly. He shut his eyes tightly against Sorrow's threat of tears, barely feeling the needle pierce his skin. In the past he would've tried to take his mind off the whole thing by retreating into his separate world of numbers (and it was normally always Don who had to withdraw him from it, as Charlie sometimes had to keep Larry connected with reality), but it seemed just the pain of the memory disconnected him from the slightest things.

When Charlie opened his eyes again Esmé was looking at him anxiously. It was clear she was worried about him.

"It's only morphine love. It should help you relax,"

It did.

Breakfast the next morning was as dull and unexciting as it had been for the past week: yoghurt and a glass of water.

Like Charlie's self decided pact of silence, it was for the best, though he missed his usual French toast and orange juice. He ate slowly; each mouthful of the yoghurt sent a cold pain into his throat, and he felt as if he'd had his tonsils taken out all over again, except the pain was infinitely worse. And they hadn't given him his jelly and ice cream yet.

He dozed most of the morning, waking in the early afternoon to Esmé's familiar face.

"Look who's here to see you, love,"

She led two unmistakably known faces to his bedside and he sat up at once, smiling at the sight of Don and Alan.

"I picked up something for you on the way here," Don said, and held out a thinnish, rectangular package he'd been holding protectively under one arm.

"Took him all morning to find the darned thing," Alan added. It was a habit of his: always being able to maintain his sense of humour in the darkest of situations.

Charlie nodded his thanks as he took the package from Don, and tore off the wrapping paper, revealing a small, portable chalkboard and a packet of fresh chalk.

Immediately he pulled one of the chalk-sticks out of its box and scribbled briefly on the board, then held it up so that Don and Alan could see what he had written.

It came as a surprise, even to Charlie, that the first thing he had written on the chalk board was nothing to do with the mathematical miracles he weaved. Instead it was one word. One simple word that told them everything.

The chalkboard read: _Savier_.

Don smiled, ignoring his brother's careless, but not uncommon mistake. Apparently this was Charlie's simplified way of thanking his brother. If he had been able to talk, neither Alan nor Don would've been able to shut him up.

Unfortunately, the ecstatic aura in the room faded five minutes later, with the unexpected interruption of one of Charlie's doctors.

"Sorry to disrupt," he said. "But I'm afraid there's some bad news about Charles. You should sit down. It might come as a bit of a shock,"


	7. When Words Turn To Dust

**A/N: **Since school's finishing next week I should be able to update more often than I do. Again, I'm sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I'm being bombarded with more assessments.

**Chapter Seven: When Words Turn To Dust**

"We would have told you before," the doctor continued. "But it was simpler to tell all of you together. We wanted Charles present when we told him,"

Charlie shifted uncomfortably. He already knew what the doctor was about to tell him was not good. Not good at all.

"The x-ray on Charles' throat showed that although the bullet went in deep, it was fortunate that it missed the artery. However, the larynx was greatly affected, as that was what stopped the bullet from puncturing his artery. Because of this, I'm afraid that for the moment, Charles will be unable to speak,"

Suddenly Charlie wasn't the only speechless person in the room. It seemed the doctor's news was hard to comprehend. Charlie without his voice was like Charlie without his soul; it was just not natural. After a moment Don swallowed hard, as angered and eager as ever to find whoever had done this to Charlie.

"It's not…_permanent_ is it?" He asked finally.

The Doctor― he had introduced himself six months ago as Doctor Michael Anderson― shrugged. "That's what we're still not clear on,"

Don swore softly under his breath, but had nothing more to say to Doctor Anderson.

"I'm sorry for the trouble," Anderson said, and walked out.

"Who the hell did this to you Charlie?" Don whispered, more to himself than to his brother. "I swear when I find him I'll―"

Charlie tugged twice on Don's sleeve, interrupting. Slowly he shook his head, almost sadly. It was a gesture that clearly said something along the lines of "Don't bother"As if to emphasise his point, Charlie curled in his ring finger and pinkie: a mock imitation of a pistol, raised his hand to his left temple and jerked the tip of his thumb downward in almost a nodding gesture.

"He shot himself?!"

Charlie nodded grimly.

"Oh God, Charlie…I'm sorry,"

He wiped the chalkboard clean with the hospital bed's sheet and scribbled on it again, with the same speed he normally jotted down his equations.

_Don't apollogize. You did nothing wrong._

Charlie sat back in his bed, fiddling with the chalk in one hand. It was a clear sign he didn't want to talk about it any more. This was one of his many habits: distracting himself whenever something troubled him too much or something was on his mind.

It was clear that he was trading his true emotions for feigned strength.

He was hiding the reality deep within his soul; an actor portraying only what his audience expected to see, and through an actor's eyes, it was not acceptable to show guilt during a scene of innocence.

Acting definitely was not one of Charlie's strengths. Never had been.

A deep, shuddering sigh escaped him, much like the sound of the first breath he took, and tears stung his eyes once again. His true emotions were at last unveiled as the tears overcame him and spilled from his eyes. The existing words from the chalkboard vanished and Charlie's hand moved slowly to write two more words.

_I tried_

The sentence was incomplete. He closed his eyes, his shoulders beginning to tremble as he wept.

Charlie had experienced a fair few dead bodies in his lifetime, but never ―Don knew― had he seen a suicide happen right in front of him. Finn Montgomery's suicide had shaken him, but not like this. There was no mistaking that this event had wounded Charlie. Not just physically but emotionally too, and a good night's sleep would not be the antidote to this new poison in his life. When Charlie opened his eyes at last, still weeping freely, he found that Don had embraced him.

Alan looked up from his crossword at his youngest son crying in his brother's arms and a small smile crossed his face.

It helped a lot to have a leader in the family.

― ― ―

"Charlie,"

The voice jolted him awake. He sat up and looked around him, no light aiding his search but the faint glow from the night nurses' station.

"I only wanna talk. There's this problem that I've been running from for ages. Maybe you could help me Charlie. I need your help,"

There was a slight movement in the doorway and Charlie recognised a figure lurch out of the shadows and move toward his bedside. It paused there for a second, and then reached over him to turn on the small lamp hanging over the hospital bed. Light flooded the room without warning, and instinctively Charlie shut his eyes against the sudden glare.

A soft snicker. Something wasn't right about the sound. Something not quite _sane_.

"Open your eyes Charlie,"

The glare stung his eyes only briefly, and it was when they were clear that he saw the hooded figure standing by his bed.

Suddenly he was afraid. Terribly afraid. The figure seemed to sense it.

"You're scared, Charlie,"

It wasn't a question, it was a fact.

"I know you're scared. _They_ aren't scared. Not of someone like me. _They_ trust me. I know what you're thinking Charlie. Why would _they_ trust _me_? After all, I have done…regrettable things in the past. I know I should stop, but…"

The figure's voice rose to almost a yell.

"I can't stop! I know I should but I _can't_! I _like_ it okay! I fucking _enjoy_ what I do!"

As this was said the hood fell back, and unveiled the face beneath it.

It was Michael, or at least what was left of his face. It looked as if someone had placed an explosive charge inside his head. Half his face had been blown away, parts of skull and flesh gleaming from the cavity. As he spoke, blood poured from his mouth and splashed to the tiled floor below in a scarlet pool.

The dead young man moved closer, reaching with blood-stained hands toward Charlie.

"Scream for me Charlie. I dare you. Scream and I may let you go,"

As many times as he tried, Charlie simply could not scream.

A smile crossed Michael's face. "Too bad,"

He raised the gun he'd appeared to pull from thin air, aimed it at Charlie's face and began to intone

"_All in all it's just a…'nother brick in the wall…all in all you're just a…'nother brick in the__―__"_

BANG!

--- ― ―

Charlie woke with a start to find he was sitting bolt upright in bed, clutching the sides as if for protection. His throat was burning as it always was when he woke from a nightmare, and it was only then that he realised he'd been trying to scream in his sleep.

But Michael was gone. There had been no gun appearing out of thin air, no sound of gunshot, no glimpse of the bloody remains of Michael's head…

_But you _have _seen it_, a silent voice told him. _You experienced the whole thing right in front of you. _You saw _his head explode. _You saw _all the blood. It was all you: the witness. _

_It was just a nightmare, _Charlie finalized. _Just a dream, a hallucination, a_―

(…_nother brick in the wall)_

There was that song again. He was beginning to hate it.

"Woah, you okay sweetie?"

Charlie started and his eyes roved toward the voice.

A night-nurse stood in the doorway. It wasn't Esmé, Charlie could tell, because this one was younger and prettier. She approached him slowly and he got a full view of her as she got closer, despite the light or lack of it. She looked about twenty, an attractive young woman with dark brown hair styled in a straight, shoulder-length bob. 'Clare', her nametag read.

"Everything okay?"

Charlie shut his eyes and nodded, relaxed, and let go of the sides of the bed.

"Well, if you need anything, y'know where the call button is,"

He offered a polite smile in response and she returned it with a little wink before she left the room. He lay in bed for over an hour, staring up at the ceiling and just pondering. Over what he didn't know, but sleep seemed to take its time in relieving him of his burden.

And the nightmares followed close behind.

Clare not only brought Charlie his breakfast the next morning, but stayed seated next to his bed as he ate it slowly.

"I didn't catch your name by the way," she spoke up when he'd finished. She was chewing hard on a piece of peppermint gum and he caught a whiff of its scent on her breath. "'Round here you're known as The Patient In Room Five-Oh-Two,"

He half-smiled at her, and then replaced his spoon for the piece of chalk and blackboard.

_It's Charlie_, he wrote quickly, then showed the board to her.

"Oh yeah, I remember. Esmé told me about you,"

_So you know what happened?_

"Hon', _everyone_ knows what happened. It was all over the news,"

_Oh._

"Sorry, if you don't wanna talk about it…"

_It's fine, just not my favourite topic of conversation._

"I can understand why,"

Charlie sighed, smiled politely and began to write something else, but a new voice introduced itself into the current conversation.

"Charlie? Is that you?"

He looked up, startled, towards the doorway and was reunited instantly with a familiar face.


	8. Before The Sunset Part One

**A/N**: Okay, I don't know for sure how many students are really in Charlie's class or the names of any of them but oh well, this is a fiction story after all so y'know…bear with me if I get the facts right or wrong. Once again I'm really sorry for the lateness but I've been really busy with school assessments (Yuk). Anyways, on with the story…

**Chapter Eight: Before The Sunset Part One **

From the very beginning of his career at CalSci, Charlie had insisted his students call him by name, although most of the staff and some of the other students favoured the term 'Professor'. Charlie, on the other hand, didn't really care much for the title. While it was flattering and complimented his intelligence, it also imprinted an image of the Einstein-like stereotype boring his class with endless drabble.

Charlie's classes were anything _but_ boring. He made his students laugh, explained everything clearly and one time even brought in a jar of Clinkers to demonstrate probability theory. He was more than just a scholar to his students; he was a friend. Anytime one of them needed to talk or needed help with something (sometimes it didn't have anything to do with what Charlie was teaching), he was always there to listen and give advice, or sometimes even a sympathetic hug.

Needless to say, Don would've immediately recognised the behaviour, and if he had been present at the time Clare and Charlie had been interrupted, and not busy with another case with the FBI, he would have witnessed an expression on his brother's face that had been sorely missed for the past seven months.

It was a simple occurrence like the young woman standing in the doorway that came as practically a relief to Charlie; like seeing the sun appear from behind winter clouds. He knew her as Lynn Waters, one of his students. A survivor of the university shooting. She was twenty three, although she looked about half her age. She had wide green eyes, fiery red hair that she always wore in two braided pigtails and a tiny whisper of a voice. The only noticeable difference about her now was the bandage around her left leg, the hospital gown she wore and the crutches held under both arms. Her hair was loose and wavy, like she'd had a rough night's sleep.

Clare caught sight of her and gathered up Charlie's breakfast dishes, pausing only to tell him, "I'll leave you to it Chaz" before she left the room.

"I had to see for myself if it was true," Lynn said softly, advancing toward Charlie's bedside. "I didn't really think…you know…anyone could _survive_ that sort of thing,"

_I don't know how I did_, Charlie wrote. _It's a complete mistery to me. I have a feeling you're the lucky one here._

Lynn shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "No-one who saw what I saw is lucky," she whispered. "I can't…I can't get that image out of my head,"

_What did you see, Lynn? _

"I…I saw him shoot you…there was…oh god there was so much blood…so many people screaming…and you…you were ch-choking…"

She trailed off, sobbing. After a moment she calmed herself down, looked back up at him and continued.

"I want to forget…I just want all of this to…y'know…_disappear_. But I can't forget…hell, Charlie, he killed _Scarlett_. We've known each other for…since childhood. What am I gonna do now she's gone?"

In all honesty, Charlie didn't have a clue. There was also a burning question needing to be answered but he couldn't bring himself to ask it; he was afraid of what the answer would be. Finally he sighed and picked up his chalk again.

_Do you know who survived? _He wrote. The question was written slowly, with much more hesitation than his usual hasty scribblings.

"Seven others, nine including us,"

That one sentence brought with it a shock of what felt like a hundred vaults.

Eight students survived. That left the other eleven…dead. From the crossfire or of later injuries, or suicide in Michael's case. That was something Charlie could not understand, could not bring himself to accept. The blackboard fell from his hands to the bed along with the chalk and he ran a hand through his chestnut curls, fighting tears. He was eager to ask more, yet screamingly afraid of what else he would discover.

"Charlie?"

Lynn's voice interrupted his train of thought. He turned his eyes from the hospital bed's sheet to her face: a sign that he had heard and understood.

"There was something else I saw, but I don't know if it's true or not. When…when the ambulance arrived, you…you stopped breathing. It was really scary and you were losing so much blood and―"

Charlie touched her shoulder gently, a gesture that silenced her. She looked up at him with those big green eyes, tears surfacing once again.

"You're supposed to be dead," she whispered. "I saw those real life medical shows. I can't think of anyone who could survive something like that. It's…I don't think it's possible,"

He sighed soundlessly and picked up his chalk again.

_Neither do I._

"But you…you practically _died_. Don't you remember anything when you were, y'know, unconscious?"

Charlie thought hard.

_To tell you the truth, no, _he wrote. _But I can still hear all the screams. I can still see the blood. And Michael_

That was when the floodgates opened. He lowered his head, weeping silently and found he could not continue. It was the first time a student had ever seen him cry.

― ― ―

The reason for Lynn's visit, as Charlie found out some time later when the tears had subsided, was because of five people: Vera Drake, Lane Bartlet, James Morland and Ben Armstrong. They, too, had also been injured in the shooting and, ironically, were still in the hospital, eager to know what had happened to their professor. As it turned out, Charlie felt the same. He pressed the call button over his bed and within a moment Clare was back in the room.

"Hiya Chaz," she chirped. "What's up?"

_There are 5 people I have to see, _he wrote. _And I was wondering if it would be okay to see them._

"Sorry, hon', I dunno if you're allowed out of bed yet, but I'll ask the doctor, 'kay?"

He nodded and Clare left the room after telling him in that cheery voice of hers, "Back soon Chaz!"

During her absence, Charlie began pondering over that particular nickname. 'Chaz'. It was definitely new; not exactly a bad nickname, but he still preferred 'Charlie' over everything else.

"Charlie?" Lynn enquired. "You okay?"

He shook himself out of his thoughts and nodded. _Just thinking_, he wrote.

"About what?"

_About why the nurse keeps calling me Chaz._

That got a small laugh from her. "I didn't know it was like you to think of things like that,"

_You'd be surprised._

"So…what about the nickname? Don't you like it?"  
_It's ok I guess. Better than what my brother calls me sometimes._

"What does he call you?"

Charlie hesitated slightly before replying. God he hated that nickname. _Chuck._

A tiny smile played on Lynn's lips. "Like the Peanuts cartoon,"

He smirked at the thought. And come to think of it, Don _did, _at times, remind him of Peppermint Patty. He remembered watching the show as a child, the source of Don's idea for Charlie's dreaded nickname. After all, it was the little things like stealing Charlie's French toast or calling him 'Chuck' that Don knew would always be annoying.

But then again it was the little things― even the annoying things― that Charlie missed. The smile faded from his lips and he sighed soundlessly.

It was almost as if Clare could sense Charlie's sudden change of mood from the hallway. She practically came skipping back into the room, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Good news, Chaz," she piped. "Time to get up,"

―――

Thanks for all the title ideas. I came up with this one myself but the others were awesome too! I might use a few in later chapters so don't be too disappointed!


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